Ad men

Political candidates are on a gravy train. They really don't need to discuss any issues in detail; they simply need to check the box next to their political party affiliation and then lay back on their rafts and float down the lazy Mississippi of political discourse. Why? Because they can. What wins elections are purses, large baggy purses stuffed to the brim by lobby money. That money buys the skills of master manipulators, or as I like to call them, ad men (regardless of gender, if your quest in life is to convince consumers to buy things they don't need and voters to vote for empty-headed ideologues, then you're and ad man). Money and manipulation wins elections, not thoughtful, detailed policy positions. Our collective ADD won't stand for it. I was reading a report in the SJ Mercury News on Carly Fiorina's maiden press conference earlier this week. The subhead of the article indicated she was "straddling the fence." She enlightened voters by indicating that climate change is a serious issue and the border with Mexico should be controlled. Profound. But it doesn't matter; she will sink GOP cash and some of the $21 million she earned for getting fired from Hewlett-Packard and never have to utter a single syllable of specific policy. She will win the GOP primary because ad men will make her look like the second coming of Jesus Christ, only in a fitted skirt. GOP voters are more than happy to drain their grey matter, open their mouths wide and drink the ad men's Kool Aid. Democratic voters are only marginally better, only because statistically they are better educated and have picked up an inkling of critical thought. But only marginally. Ad men have infected progressive politics as well. I had a professor in college who listened intently one afternoon to my presentation on the sociological reasons that contributed to Ernest Hemingway removing the northern hemisphere of his brain with a 12-gauge shotgun. "Quick, spell Hemingway," she ordered after I was done and basking in the afterglow. "H-E-M-I-N-G-W-A-Y," I replied in the verve so peculiar to 21-year-old men. After class I asked her what the spelling bee was all about. She answered that she wanted to see if I had genuinely immersed myself in a critical perspective, or was just allowing my impressionable hormones to dictate a romanticized position. Knowing how to spell the subject's name, apparently, was a simple but time-worn test.
Quick, spell Fiorina.